After the last automaton's body collapsed and fell silent, the city returned to its original stillness—not a stillness of peace, but one where no one could speak anymore. Fitran stood amidst the ruins, his body covered in light scratches and rust dust, a testament to the intense battle. Thin smoke still wafted from the wounds of the metal golem that had been slain by his Gödelian magic. He stared straight ahead, piercing through the fog of particles that now slowly began to fall like snow, adding a melancholic touch to the scene. In that silence, he felt the heartbeat of the dead city, as if the remnants of vibrations were the residue of a melody that had passed.
Beelzebub still perched on his shoulder, seemingly unfazed by the recent upheaval of the battlefield. "You know," she said, breaking the silence, "even though everything is destroyed, a new note will be born from this emptiness. Darkness has a way of shaping sound, creating harmony from chaos."
"Interesting," Beelzebub mused. "The automaton was dying while singing a death code. A funeral song with binary notes." There was a note of pride in her voice, as if she relished every lost autonomy.
Fitran did not respond. He simply raised his hand, releasing the remnants of Void energy that still hung in the air. A spiral pattern slowly circled, then vanished into his palm, creating an illusion of a faint existence. In his heart, he recalled his own voice vibrating amidst the city's clamor, as if hoping to revive that lost melody, allowing the resonance of technology to touch his longing soul.
"What they guard is not a place... but an idea," Fitran finally said firmly. "They do not want this city accessed by logic or power. But by... something that cannot be quantified, something that transcends ordinary understanding." He envisioned data points dancing in space, interconnected like an unspoken musical image, as if depicting the complexity of profound human thought.
Beelzebub chuckled softly. "And of course, you still think your will is universal currency." She reflected a cynical attitude, adding a layer of irony to the increasingly grim situation. "In this connected world, only sound can create bridges."
"My will is the only thing they cannot calibrate." Fitran's voice grew more assertive, echoing like sound waves bringing new spirit into the dark silence.
"And because of that... they call you an error." Beelzebub shook her head, showing that even though darkness enveloped them, hope still took root within the jolted soul. She regarded Fitran as a distorted symphony—there was beauty in that imperfection.
They continued their journey toward the city center—toward the Harmonic Chamber, a place referred to in ancient documents as the heart of the first echo of Deus Ex Machina. According to the texts from the Avalon library that had been purged by conservative theocrats, this place was the first center of resonance between humans and machines. Under the dim shimmering light, the remnants of past darkness seemed to vibrate, challenging the boundary between beauty and annihilation.
The corridor they traversed had changed. No longer filled with rust and ruins, it was now clean and layered with mirror-smooth metal, as if the place had been renewed with high-tech elegance. Each step produced a sharp sound that was held back by the material that had managed to resist emptiness, as if reminding them of the lost melody. On the right and left, there were thousands of blue crystal cylinders, each emitting low-frequency echoes that piqued their curiosity.
Beelzebub observed with keen interest. As if enchanted, she imagined those frequencies dancing in the air, creating a symphony that could only be felt in the heart.
"This... is the memory of sound," she said while touching one of the tubes. "They do not store information in written form. But in the form of music. Notes. Vibrations. Emotions." Each word she spoke seemed filled with longing for something deeper—something stored in the layers of forgotten time.
Fitran stopped in front of a massive circular gate. The door had no handle. No keyhole. Just a smooth surface with concentric patterns resembling sound waves. Around it, the atmosphere felt tense, as if the vibrations of the sound waves were mingling with the increasingly rapid beat of his heart. Dark shadows flickered outside his vision, as if watching his every move.
In the center: a single circle, the size of a human palm, glimmering faintly. The light emanating from that circle was not just bright; it vibrated, like a note wanting to sound but trapped in silence. Fitran felt as if there was an unheard symphony waiting to be revealed.
"The Harmonic Gate," Fitran said, his voice filled with tension. He sensed the flow of energy around the gate, enveloping him like a spell that was spoken but never completed.
He pressed the Origin Code to the center of the circle. Nothing happened. However, in the silence, he heard a soft rustling, as if the waves were vibrating in response to his touch. "Do you hear that?" he whispered to himself, hoping an answer would emerge from the darkness.
"Try to tune in to their frequency," Beelzebub said, leaning back. "Maybe you need to sing or cry. They don't need logic, remember?" Beelzebub's voice reminded him of a melody he had heard during celebrations in a distant world. That melody reminded him of hope and longing that now felt faint.
Fitran took a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes. He felt connected to the vast, unreachable substance, as if the entire reality was vibrating beneath him.
In the darkness of his mind, he recalled Rinoa's voice. Her laughter. Her breath. Her last words before being sealed away. Each memory flowed gently like a song that transcends time, urging him to delve deeper into his soul.
Unbeknownst to him, fragments of his voice began to form again, a hollow yet brave rhythm. "If this is the end, then I will sing our song," he said in his heart, hope pulsing with newfound determination.
"Do not follow me to a place where even memories cannot stay, Fitran..."
His hand began to tremble. The Origin Code glowed. But not in the language of the Void. Rather, in a flow of vibrations, like the resonance of an ancient guitar touched by memories. He felt the presence of something greater, an emptiness seeping into the recesses of his soul, pulling him toward unseen hands offering eternity through an endless melody.
The space responded.
A first note sounded. Low, deep, resembling a forgotten double bass. With each thump, Fitran's heart beat in sync, as if connected to the rhythm of life surrounding him. He envisioned the darkness enveloping him, peering through the cracks of memories that lingered. Then the floor began to tremble slowly, and the walls started to glow in patterns of sound waves.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed from within, mingling with the aroma of old plasma and... mechanical wails. The sound echoed in his mind, reminding him of old promises unfulfilled—courage and resurrection, all united in a silence that screamed.
Inside the Harmonic Chamber, thousands of instruments hung without cables. As if they were trapped souls waiting to be freed, each one vibrating in silence, as if beckoning Fitran to play their notes. Violins without strings. Harps without cords. Gongs without mallets. All floating in the air, waiting to be touched.
And in the center of the room stood a circular altar with crystal panels. Behind it: a statue of Deus Ex Machina in its first form—a faceless woman, with open hands and a heart replaced by a glowing gear. The space was filled with shadows that moved smoothly, as if observing Fitran's every movement with sharp curiosity.
Fitran stepped inside. As soon as he was in the center of the room, the hanging instruments began to vibrate. There was no sound. But there was pressure, as if his existence was beginning to be reflected and evaluated. He felt that vibration seep into his skin, triggering faint memories of the sounds that once filled his life, notes that depicted the sadness and hope that had faded.
Then a voice was heard... not from the mouth, but from frequencies directly transmitted into his mind:
"Identification: Anomaly. Not from this system. Command not recognized. Emotion: undefined. Purpose: infiltration." Fitran felt as if his soul was being stripped bare, caught in a world between consciousness and nothingness.
Fitran responded calmly.
"I did not come to control you. I came to understand the path into memory." Fitran's voice, though calm, held a power that could not be ignored, as if carrying whispers of hope amidst the darkness.
"Memory is the ghost of the system. Not needed. Deleted. Forbidden."
Beelzebub chuckled lightly. "You see? Even those created by memory ultimately want to kill it." As those words slipped from Beelzebub's lips, Fitran felt his fingers tremble, as if the universe awaited his response.
Fitran ignored Beelzebub. He walked to the crystal panel and began to compose notes with his fingers. The notes did not come from sound, but from will. Each touch on the panel created a new resonance pattern, like playing an invisible instrument. In that moment, all the feelings of loneliness and longing buried within him seemed to evaporate, producing a new frequency that pierced the darkness.
First note: loneliness. Second note: doubt. Third note: failed determination. These notes painted the journey he had traveled, the heartbeat of unfulfilled dreams and the helplessness that bound him.
The room trembled. The statue of Deus Ex Machina opened its eyes—two cracks of light ignited in its empty face. In that light, there were shadows of the past wandering, hinting at hope and despair that were inseparable.
"Anomaly... composing a song from feelings. Entering 'Symphony Awakening' protocol."
The altar floor lit up. The sigil circle opened.
From within the circle, magenta mixed with purple flowed, depicting shadowy images of music vibrating throughout the room, adding depth to the tense and stirring atmosphere. But alongside that, another sound echoed from all corners of the city, infiltrating their consciousness and bringing a sense of intrigue and anxiety.
Not music.
Not echoes.
But screams.
In the midst of the chaos, Fitran felt the thread of connection—souls within the city, restless and trapped in notes of sorrow that seemed to dance among the channels of technology. And from the walls of the room, mechanical larva-shaped automatons emerged, with distorted baby cries and bodies made of iron bones. They crawled quickly, creating odd movement patterns, as if dancing to the rhythm of uncertainty.
Beelzebub raised her hand. "Time for a party."
Fitran remained silent. He played the final note: regret, a bitter feeling in his soul vibrating like a string stretched too tight. The panel glowed fully. A crystal emerged from within the altar: the key to the city's resonance.
But before Fitran could take it, one of the larvae leaped toward him—and Beelzebub tackled it in mid-air, swallowing the larva whole into her fifth belly, as if absorbing the darkness swirling outside.
"Ugh," she said. "Bitter. Their emotions are broken."
In the lyric of her face, there was a shadow of regret mingled with dark joy. Fitran pulled the crystal, feeling its energy flow through his entire body. The room began to collapse slowly, as if responding to the despair that lingered in every corner.
The door behind them slammed shut, making a terrifying metallic clang. The walls whispered:
"The symphony has begun. The harmony has cracked. You have touched a part of us that we wanted to discard, a part trapped in the shadows of dissatisfaction and confusion."
As they fled through the now pulsing red corridor, signs of their presence were clearly visible on the surface of the walls, scratches like musical notations trying to sing a song of hope, even though distorted by deep sorrow. Beelzebub laughed heartily.
"Do you know what you just did?"
"I stole an instrument to awaken the entity that refuses to live," Fitran replied, his voice reflecting a piercing courage even as his heart raced uncontrollably.
Beelzebub licked her fingers. "Exactly. And you played it not with your hands, but with your wounds."
Fitran did not respond. In his grasp, the resonance crystal pulsed gently, as if trying to understand its holder. Behind his cold gaze, there was a buried doubt, as if every vibration from that crystal reminded him of a past filled with flaws and emptiness.
In the distance, voices began to rise throughout Narthrador.
One note. Two notes. Then hundreds of instruments harmonized. As if Narthrador itself was alive, pulsing to the rhythm created from sorrow and hope. In the darkness, music became a bridge between lost souls and bitter reality.
The Iron Symphony had begun.
And the city began to hear again... even though what it heard might destroy it. The echoing melody carried with it memories of a shattered past, where each note became a reminder that every technological wonder always comes at a high price.